


Let Your Currents Do The Sweeping

by JʼLi (kibigo)



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker
Genre: Contemporary AU, Dancing, Drunken Brawl, F/M, Genre-Awareness, Meta, Palace Garden Tea Party, Poetry, Rap, Romance, Shower Scenes and You, Sleeping Together, Sonnet, fashion - Freeform, first date?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28421112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kibigo/pseuds/J%CA%BCLi
Summary: Clouds do mask the stars above;The dangling lights replace their glow.Heaven cannot speak to us;Dance‐partner’s hand, the way to show.Reciting this short poem back to himself, Link smiled, and, with a sense of accomplishment, he decided that writing poetry about dance was surely a superior art to partaking himself.  All the more the fool was he, then, when a few minutes later the Princess strode over to him and extended her hand.In which Link finds himself in a drunken brawl with the Crown Princess of Hyrule, and actually gets away with giving her a black eye.ZeLink. Contemporary setting. Heavily AU.
Relationships: Aryll & Zelda (Legend of Zelda), Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19
Collections: Nabla





	Let Your Currents Do The Sweeping

####  **I** In formal dress do those beyond their shire Protect against the night of mystery:

The tremor in Link’s otherwise calm voice betrayed his disbelief. “Remind me again,” he asked, “ _how_ you managed to secure invitations to the Princess’s monthly Palace Garden Tea?” The pair were collected in the entryway to the block of flats they shared: Link’s sister stood calm, disinterested; he himself was a bit unnerved, as one about to meet the Royal Princess ought to be. 

The time was evening, shortly after supper. Hardly the traditional time for a tea party, but then, the only thing really traditional about the Princess Hyrule Palace Garden Tea Party was its name. _That_ was set legally in stone, by the budgetary plan of Her Majesty’s Government, persisting through at least three generations of princess, from back when throwing a tea party was considered a typical teenage thing to do. 

As for what the current Princess’s parties looked like, nobody who hadn’t attended knew. Web searches had dredged up copious speculation that they were Her way of looking for a suitor, but Link regarded these with skepticism: He thought it unlikely the Princess would stage a wedding in the midst of graduate school. 

So, his fidgeting anxiety was well‐founded. Aryll, on the other hand, was rolling her eyes. “Oh, come on, Link,” she said. “You _know_ she is in the Castleton University Astronomical Society with me.” 

“ _Nominally_ ,” Link protested. Aryll could be a right pain to get details out of, especially when she was playing coy, which she did whenever it was sure to get on Link’s nerves. “We both know that Her Grace never sets foot on that old campus.” And such was the truth: The Princess Zelda was of a scholarly age, and pursued a scholarly interest, yet Her instruction and extracurriculars occurred, as ever, out of the public eye. As Castleton was the Capital’s oldest and most prestigious university, Her Name graced the registers as a matter of course—but, for the most part, as a formality only. 

For Aryll, the situation was exactly opposite. She was there on scholarship, an undergraduate. 

“We met during an excursion last month, alright?” Aryll’s body language read “perturbed”; she adjusted the fit of her coat. “There were those enormous meteor showers—it was _kind of_ a big deal?” Link lacked his sister’s enthusiasm for the articulations of Heaven; he stared blankly at her. She pointedly ignored this. “Anyway, we hit it off. We’ve been emailing ever since.” 

“Hit it off?” Link raised an eyebrow. His sister had a history of strange and bewildering romantic partners, and he hated to admit that a princess would be entirely in·line with her tastes. 

She scowled at him, though. “Don’t give me that look,” she said. “I don’t date graduates.” Link nodded his understanding. If only the Princess had been younger! And Aryll eyed him in a mock contemplative stare. “She _is_ pretty,” she continued. “I bet you’d go for her.” 

“I’ve seen her on the telly, actually,” Link replied, blasé, “and she’s not my type.” Credit where it was due, the Princess _was_ attractive, but it was the last thing Link needed to get thrown out of the Palace Gardens for hitting on the future Queen. 

Because when Aryll had been invited to the Princess’s evening party, the invitation had been for two. And as she was now (unfortunately) single, the honour fell to her beloved sibling to tag along. 

Hence their present state of anticipation. Insofar as the frigid Hyjuary climate allowed, each was at their most formal; for Link, this was a relatively simple affair. Later that night, writing down the day’s events as she waited for her shower, the Crown Princess would describe his attire thusly: 

> Tunic of wool, green as grass: Thick to ward against the cold. Trousers in tan; leather boots: Nary changed from times of old.

Indeed, he had an oldfashioned, timeless, military sort of look about him, not flattering so much as distinguished, familiar, trim. Thence Link preferred it: He liked to imagine himself as such. 

“Goddesses above,” Aryll had exclaimed, upon witnessing his arrival in the foyer. “Did you _have_ to go with the hat?” Her task had been harder and easier at the same time. Harder because: Aryll had a fondness for sleeveless dresses and showing skin; she had spent her childhood diminutive, and her teenage years tall and gangly, and was only now, in university, perfecting the attire to give her figure its desired frame. And yet, it was still easier because: She also had a fondness for big, poofy coats, the variety wot covered her fingertips and stretched down to her knees, as was the case with the one she now wore. She went light on jewellery, but a simple hibiscus flower ornament was pinned to her lapel—her trademark. 

“What’s wrong with the hat?” Link had asked, adjusting his pointed cap. “It’s cold outside!” 

“So wear an ushanka like an ordinary person. I swear.” One aforementioned conversation later and she was wrapping a scarf around her neck, glancing at her phone as it buzzed softly in her hand. “Alright, ride’s in five,” she said, pocketing the device and clapping a pair of muffs over her ears. “Best wait outside.” 

They being of the commoner sort, the Princess had arranged for their transportation, coordinated through text messages to Aryll. As it happened, their chariot turned out to be little more than a simple rideshare, although Link shuddered to think of what manner of tip one might receive for ridesharing a brother and sister to the very front steps of the Capital. At least, he certainly hoped that the Princess was of a generous sort. 

The driver opened the door to the vehicle, and Aryll slid through to the farthest seat, Link following behind. She bounced slightly as she buckled up, looking, despite her feigned nonchalance, actually excited—although she resumed her glassy countenance once she noticed Link watching her. 

The door closed, the driver reseated themselves, and they were on their way. 

####  **II** Such was the case with mine own clean attire, The first time you did lay your eyes on me.

It was far from late in the evening, but it was early in the year, and consequently the sky was already pitch as their driver manoeuvred Link and Aryll through downtown. Lights glinted against the windows and off Aryll’s face as she silently tracked their progress; _It is amazing,_ she thought: 

> The people in their homes, Or else their motorcars, In neither case are seen. Indeed, But for sidewalk pedestrians, the night is human‐free. Yet still on ev’ry side, as we meander through this dark and quiet nighttime scene, come storefronts, streetlamps, roads, a park, and billboards serving to recall man’s lasting industry.

Link’s thoughts, on the other hand, were rather void. Conversation with his sister not being forthcoming under the driver’s presence, he had little choice but to listen to the urban radio which played from the stereo in the front of the vehicle: 

> It’s that “Ue o Muite” sound: Tears to the sky; points to the ground. These Hycastle fakes be frontin’ downtown; We don’t live on the mound. We out of the fold; Force in all black, no need for the gold; No need for our name to be bought and then sold; Thieftown raps cold breaking the mould. Foes all froze like Blizzrobe; old. We thieves on patrol, here to take what you stole. Rule by the Lo; truth to the prole: The kind of change you won’t find at the poll. Melting the Crown down now in the crucible.

“Kind of an ominous radio selection, don’t you think?” Link asked, startling his sister out of her reverie. 

“Hm?” she asked, listening for a moment. Their ride took a rightwards turn, and they began the climb into the Hycastle district, the shops getting alternatively more high·end or tourist‐oriented as they neared the palace. “You don’t like Mumbo Jumbo?” 

“I can change the station, if it’s not to your liking,” the driver offered. 

“Don’t,” Aryll quickly assuaged. “My brother is just a snob, sometimes. He can deal.” And the driver, knowing who was tipping and that it wasn’t Link, nodded and complied. 

> Melting the Crown down now in the crucible.

“. . . Never mind,” Link sighed. 

They rode on in silence once again, but Aryll was fidgety this time, as though there were something she wanted to say but she wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. Eventually, she spoke. “Hey, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this,” she said softly, “but you’re attending this thing as my guest, and moreover as my brother, alright? If you make people cross, it will reflect poorly on me as well. So, try to play nice? I’d like to be invited back sometime.” 

“I know _that_ ,” Link replied, annoyed that she would even question his honour. When had he ever gotten into a fight? He was nothing if not considerate. “Heavens, why did you even ask me along if you don’t trust me with something like that?” 

“Zelda said that she wanted to meet you,” Aryll replied curtly, and before Link could inquire further, they had arrived. “Thank you for the ride,” Aryll said sweetly, closing the door, and they turned to meet the escort who was already waiting for them. They were led discretely through a sidedoor into the Palace—not Link felt there was much _need_ for discretion: For his name to appear in print, after all, he would first have to be recognized—and he was skeptical that tabloid journalists spent much time covering the shipyard kitchens. 

The Royal Palace was an expansive building of daunting external architecture and warm, if outdated, interior décor. Two principal sections comprised it :— The first, the original structure, held all the major rooms of state, the bedrooms of the King & Queen and of most of the staff, and the bulk of the rooms of interest for the passing tourist (who might indeed, on some months, be allowed to pass through). The second, significantly smaller and more modern architecturally, was a later addition, bequeathed to the heir apparent for her own purposes once she came of age. Each had its own gardens, the latter obviously making the siblings’ destination this evening. 

But, not immediately. They were first led into a small (by Palace standards) administrative room and handed papers to sign. 

“What’s this, then?” Link asked, eyeing the legalese warily. Aryll, for her part, was already devouring the text. 

“Nondisclosure agreement,” his sister translated for him, and, satisfied with the phrasing, penned her name. “What happens at Palace Garden Tea _stays_ at Palace Garden Tea.” 

“. . . And here I thought this evening was going to be _boring_ ,” Link remarked, scrawling his own with considerably less enthusiasm. The papers were taken away and they were continued on their journey towards the Princess’s courtyard. 

“Whyever would you think that?” Aryll asked. “The Princess may be royalty, but that doesn’t make her any less twenty·three.” 

“I have known _plenty_ of boring twenty·three‐year‐olds,” Link countered. 

“Yeah, and how many of them are friends with me? Have faith.” Aryll tapped his arm lightly. “You think I’d hit it off with a square? Come _on_.” 

Their escort pulled open the door before Link could respond. 

The venue was small enough that their entrance didn’t need to be announced. “Oi! Aryll!” a shout came, and Link watched his sister’s face light up considerably. 

Making her way over to them, then, was the Princess of Hyrule. 

####  **III** To see you as you spun across the floor, Your face of joy led by another’s hand . . .

The first thing to be noticed was the music, which was, to Link’s surprise, some kind off Geldobeats—which was to say: fucking M♡ルΞN✧⁓ herself at the turntable, setting the mood. Even before the door had been opened, one could hear the throbbing waves of bass, and although the noise wasn’t deafening, it meant that they were all speaking loudly to be heard. “And you must be Link,” the Princess said, extending her hand to him. “Charmed; Aryll has told so much about you.” 

The hand was held vertically, not horizontal. It was a clear sign that there were to be no obsequities or kissings of hands, and Link took it with a firm shake and a gentle squeeze. “I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or terrified by that,” he said. 

“Mm.” Zelda tilted her head and very visibly ran her eyes up and down his body, appraising his figure. “I suppose we’ll both find out tonight, won’t we?” And that certainly did nothing to ease Link’s nerves. 

The truth, rapidly revealed, was that it was one thing for Link to watch the Princess Hyrule when she was on the telly, and quite another to have her standing there before you, as casual as you please, chatting it up with your sister. “Radiant” was one word. She had dressed practically for the evening, which was to say, in jeans and a turtleneck sweater. It wasn’t exactly _fashionable_ ; turtlenecks were hardly the current style, and the garment might have seemed unsightly if it weren’t both several lakh rupees in worth and fitted _exactly_ to her figure. As it was, the impression was one of refined elegance. A gold chain of moderate weight hung around her neck, and diamond studs sparkled from both of her ears. 

“There’s spiced cider over the way, if you find yourself parched,” Zelda informed them, indicating a far table with her hand. She gave them both a small smile. “I’ll leave you two to mingle.” 

“I thought this was supposed to be a _tea_ party,” Link remarked softly—little more than a mutter—as the Princess walked away. He hadn’t intended to be heard over the music—but no voice was too quiet for ears that had been trained for the Goddess. Her Grace laughed, clear and bright, in a way which lit up the whole scene. 

“You weren’t joking about him being _proper_ , Aryll,” she said, calling lightly over her shoulder. The younger woman shrugged, and Link frowned at both, and the evident secrets shared betwixt them. He told himself that it was only the cold which left his ears burning. 

Watching her walk away, it was made obvious that Zelda’s trousers were no less expensive than her top, nor any less fitted to her figure. 

Aryll rocked lightly on her heels. “So, definitely not your type, huh?” she asked. 

“Royal?” Link replied, pulling his eyes away from the Princess’s immaculate rear. “I should think not.” 

“Ah, well, worth a shot.” His sister led him through the crowd, and she promptly poured herself a mug of cider. “Suppose I’ll just have to secure my nobility some other way.” 

And the speakers played BARRIARA. 

In addition to being dark, and cold, the night was cloudy; the moon, which ought to have been near full, was little more than a bright smudge in the sky above them. Something about it reminded Link of being underwater, and while Aryll plunged herself into the frigid depths of the party without hesitation, he himself already felt a little tossed about by its currents and tides. So, as his sister drained her mug and made her way to the dancefloor (of course there was a dancefloor), Link clung to the shallows, which was to say, the drinks table. He saw a great many faces passing by, there, and none of them paid him any mind. 

Link found himself wondering, again, why exactly he had been invited here. 

Standing, motionless, with an (albeit warm) mug in his hand (which he sipped slowly) did little to ward off the cold, and it seeped into his joints and left him feeling thankful, at least, that he had yet to spring a runny nose. Aryll seemed to be having fun, judging from her altogether too cheery expression—although Link refrained from watching her too closely: Something about seeing her partying felt like a violation of their carefully‐cultivated familial distance. He was enough her elder that she would accuse him of acting the parent if he scrutinized her too excessively, and Link was generally too kindhearted to point out that he had indeed been doing exactly that, ever since their grandmother had died. So, in place of his sister, Link instead watched the Princess, who seemed to be alternating between greeting guests, having Big Important Conversations, and lightheartedly dancing, faster than the DJ could change tunes. 

Of course, with time, Princess and Sister collided, and the sight of the two of them laughing and dancing together was vibrantly joyful enough to warm even his calloused bones. Link was hardly a poet, but, with nothing but time on his hands, he set to capture the scene in verse. The result follows: 

> Clouds do mask the stars above; The dangling lights replace their glow. Heaven cannot speak to us; Dance‐partner’s hand, the way to show.

Reciting this short poem back to himself, Link smiled, and, with a sense of accomplishment, he decided that writing poetry about dance was surely a superior art to partaking himself. All the more the fool was he, then, when a few minutes later the Princess strode over to him and extended her hand. Just moments before, she had left Aryll to speak briefly with M♡ルΞN✧⁓, and the night’s soundtrack had already transitioned to something more melodious, more traditional. 

“I—” Link began, flustered, quickly coming to the realization that he had nothing at all to say in this situation, absolutely no response whatsoever to the fact that the Crown Princess of Hyrule Kingdom was now asking him to join her on the dancefloor. So, instead, he shut his mouth, and he took her hand. 

Zelda smirked, in a way which made Link feel like he was being an awful pushover, and she led him to the floor. 

####  **IV** In mine, would further pleasure lie in store? Or fail by high etiquital demand?

The change in music turned out to be a godsend, as was doubtless Zelda’s intention. In contrast to the rhythmic electronica which had preceded it, Link actually knew how to dance a Bolero of Fire, even if this one was being played with synths rather than harpstrings. Zelda was standing closer to him than he had any right to expect; being the taller, she also took the lead role; and Link’s boots were hardly cut out for dancing, besides. Nevertheless, they managed alright. Link had not properly danced with another person (or, to be honest, on his own) since secondary school, and he had forgotten what an intimate, intoxicating affair it could be. Zelda, who had been doing this all night, was of course quite numb to it. 

It was for any number of reasons, then, that she was the first of the pair to form words. “You seemed to be having difficulty enjoying the party,” she said. 

“What, just because I was standing all alone? I am enjoying it, fine.” Link knew better than to criticize the Princess’s own Palace Garden Tea Party to her face, even if it did lack actual tea; moreover, he got the sense she was _pitying_ him, which was to be avoided. “The atmosphere is nice; the music is pleasant . . .” He trailed off after catching sight of Zelda’s expression: She wasn’t buying any of it. “Well, it is a tad cold,” he finally admitted. 

“Only because you just _stand there_ ,” Zelda replied, giggling. Her body pressed close to his, then brought him out into a spin. “Live a little. You weren’t invited to perform _guard duty_.” 

Link found talking while dancing to be considerably more difficult than Zelda made it appear, but he made a valliant effort. “And why _was_ I invited, then, if I may ask?” The Princess herself paused at the question, and they stumbled through the next few steps as a result. 

“What do you mean?” Zelda asked, innocently, once they had regained their footing. “Aryll invited you. You’re her plus·one, no?” 

“Ah, well, she mentioned something . . .” Link realized that while it was possible that his sister and the Princess had conspired in bringing him here, it was equally possible that the latter had expressed wanting to meet him as a general sentiment and Aryll had taken the initiative on her own. He let the question drop rather than finishing it. “Eh, nevermind. You and she seem to be getting along,” he observed, as way of redirecting the conversation. 

“Jealous?” the Princess teased. For no reason whatsoever, Link felt his cheeks burning. “It’s so rare we get the chance to meet in person, you know. Try not to judge for her making the most of it.” 

As it happened, Link _was_ jealous. He had never been given the opportunity to go to university; he had worked his arse off just to get Aryll through secondary school, and while he was quick to express thanks for her successes, he was also envious of a freedom which he would himself never get to experience. And then, not only does she manage to secure admittance to one of Hyrule’s finest universities, but she there makes friends with none other than the Royal Princess, Light of the Kingdom, Hyrule’s Sacred Guide? Yes, Link was jealous. While watching her smiling and chatting with Zelda as if with an old friend, Link had wondered if he had ever made someone smile like that in his life. 

But, it didn’t seem quite right to say so. “I only meant that you seemed like close friends,” Link said. 

“Ah, yes.” Zelda sighed. “She is a bit young—and it shows sometimes. But I quite enjoy her company. You two seem very different.” They both laughed at the understatement. “Although,” she added, “both attractive.” 

“I’m sure that’s quite usual, for someone of your stature,” Link commented. He wasn’t used to being praised on his appearance, although he supposed it was probably quite regular for an event like this. “You must be surrounded by beautiful people all the time.” 

“Quite,” Zelda replied. “I wish you were uglier.” And, oh, he had asked for that one. 

“Well, regardless.” Link fell back on formality. “You look quite fetching tonight yourself, Your Grace.” 

Zelda laughed and waved off the compliment, which, in retrospect, Link was certain she had probably been receiving all night. “My good ser. Mine is the flesh from which the whole of Hyrulean fashion descends. To say I am attractive is tautological.” She gave him a small smile. “But thanks, I suppose.” 

“You’d rather you were uglier, too?” 

Her laugh was more genuine this time. “Perhaps.” 

“Well, one might start by wearing less expensive clothes.” The comment emerged unbidden, but once it was out of his mouth, Link could hardly retract it. 

“Ooh, do you think that would work?” Zelda asked, her voice patronizing. “What do you say we go around back and trade?” 

“What I think,” Link said, “is that that _might_ give people the wrong impression . . .” He didn’t appreciate the insinuation that his clothes were “cheaper”—although compared to the Princess’s, they definitely were. 

“What, that we’re fucking?” Zelda asked, bringing Link out into another spin. It wasn’t a word which Link had _expected_ to hear out of the Princess’s mouth, and he had to focus to keep from falling over. “You think they aren’t figuring that already? Isn’t _that_ why you were invited here? You’re clearly not a socialite. And in my arms!” 

“I’m sure your guests are not—” Link protested. 

“Oh. They are,” Zelda assured. Link had assumed that the Princess must be on pleasant terms with everyone here, but the way she spoke brought challenge to that notion, Aryll notwithstanding. “And who’s to say they’re wrong? Who’s to say this party doesn’t just comprise the opening sections of some sleazy, third‐rate smut? You can imagine it, can’t you? 

> “A ploy, unwary innocents to lure— Such as yourself: a noname bachelor! Who is to say the thing which I most want Is not your throbbing dick inside my you·know·what?

“The readers are _waiting_ , Link.” 

“Well!” Link replied, realizing in that moment that the Princess was perhaps far more sloshed than she first let on. He took a step back to extricate himself from the situation. “I hope Your Grace is comfortable in the presence of disappointment, then. Respectfully.” 

“Disappointment?” Zelda asked. She, too, stopped the pretense of dancing; they stood together in the middle of the floor. “Yes, Disappointment and I are, as they say, rather _intimately_ familiar. In fact, I was assuming she would share the bed—you know, _ménage à trois_?” 

Zelda’s accent, of course, was impeccable. Seeing no graceful way to salvage the situation, Link made an excuse of wanting to check up on Aryll, and bid the Princess good night. 

####  **V** Such guides were all wot kept secure my fate, Yet they I found could not uphold my passion;

“I think she likes you,” Aryll said simply, taking a long drink from her mug of cider. 

Link followed suit. “You don’t say.” He’d returned to his station beside the cider pot, from where his sister had evidently been observing the entirety of their dance. The Princess appeared to be taking a breather of her own, and she was staring at them from across the way. 

“She hasn’t danced with anyone else for nearly so long.” Aryll looked at him. “What were you two discussing?” 

“I’m not sure I would call what we had a _discussion_ ,” Link replied, searching for a word which might sum it up. “Fashion” was the best he could manage. 

“She is quite the icon, isn’t she?” Aryll asked. “But I never thought _you_ would take an interest.” 

“I haven’t, exactly.” Link sighed, scratching the back of his head beneath his hat. “I . . . may have told her that I thought her clothes too expensive.” 

He had expected to be chided for this remark, but Aryll just laughed, which was almost worse. “Hah, you don’t remember,” she told him. She took another drink of cider, and her voice took on a storyteller’s tone. “Back when we were in secondary school . . . the Princess actually had a huge “indie” phase. You know: thrifting, torn trousers, and the like, neverminding that “daughter of the Head of State” was about the furthest thing from indie one could get. Well, anyway, next thing you know, all the big brands come out with these new fashion lines wot charged a couple lakh for an outdated band shirt and a pair of jeans with some holes in them. Hilarious—and baffling. Hyrulean fashion would never be the same.” 

“Did she ever . . . buy any of it?” 

“Fuck if I know. I doubt it. But that’s not the point. Thing is, once that started happening, all the cheap stuff got a _lot_ harder to find. Poseurs everywhere.” Aryll laughed. “I’m pretty sure the witches at our school tried to hex her once or twice over it. I think she learned better than to try and appropriate from scene after that.” 

“Mm.” Zelda was distracted by someone; drawn into a conversation. Link realized as he watched her that he still did not know a single other soul here. Who had Aryll been talking to, earlier? “Tell me . . .” he began, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt with what he was about to ask, and of his sister besides. “People don’t actually . . . write promiscuous stories about her, and post that online, do they?” 

Aryll stared at him, and not only because he had just used the word “promiscuous”. “Bro,” she stated, as though the answer were obvious (it was). “Zelda is like . . . the single most lusted‐after twentysomething in all of Hyrule. What do you think?” 

“It just seemed a little . . . I don’t know . . . sacrilegious?” 

“It makes up an entire _genre_ of pornography. It is _the_ single most popular RPF tag on Fandom Archive. There are _video games_ —” 

“I don’t need to know!” Link raised his hands. “Zelda just . . . mentioned something to that effect, and I thought it was strange is all.” 

“Do you think she actually reads any of it?” Aryll asked (and Link was beginning to seriously regret broaching the subject). “I’m not sure I would. But then again . . . I’d be curious?” He was saved from having to answer this question by the Princess herself, who had finished her conversation and was now walking their way—although there was a part of him which wondered if he was in fact being tossed out of the frying pan and into the fire. 

As it turned out, however, Zelda hadn’t actually been walking towards _them_ at all. Rather, she was heading for the drinks table, which they were still standing before. She nodded to each of them in turn as she passed: “Aryll,” she remarked warmly. Then colder, and more stern: “Link.” 

“You still think she likes me?” Link whispered, after the Princess had passed and was busy refilling her mug. 

“Well, go and talk to her, then!” Aryll hissed. “She’s the _Princess_ ; quit being an ass and make up.” 

“ _She_ was the ass,” Link asserted in vain, but he left and ambled up behind her anyway. 

Zelda turned, full mug in hand, and nearly knocked it right into him, only barely managing to avoid sending cider everywhere. “Oh, hey,” she said, blinking at him. In all honesty, Link thought she looked a little unsteady on her feet, but considering she had been elegantly dancing with him just moments before, supposed this could have been due to surprise. “Your mug empty, too?” 

“No, actually,” and hers was _quite_ full, Link noticed. He coughed. “I wanted to apologize for being so presumptuous, earlier. I oughtn’t’ve commented on your clothing like that.” 

“Oh.” Zelda blinked again. “I didn’t mind.” 

In fact, it felt as though they were having a blinking competition, the two of them. “You . . . didn’t mind?” Link repeated. “You seemed awfully cold just now for someone who didn’t mind.” 

“I thought that’s what you wanted? Whenever I tried getting casual with you, you went all stiff and formal, like . . .” She pantomimed. “Now you’re saying I’m too serious. Make up your mind.” 

“You told me that you wished I was uglier, and then you started propositioning me for sex! How did you expect me to act?!” 

“Propositioned? I was merely _acknowledging_ the established literary convention—” 

“I was _hoping_ we could just _apologize_ —” 

“Now, look here.” Zelda cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Look here, Link: 

> “It’s obvious this game is new to you, So let me offer some advice for free: Those people who will fuck around with you, And then apologize immediately? They aren’t your friends. They’re only using you. You won’t be getting shit like that from me.

“I don’t accept your apology and I’m not offering you mine. I had fun dancing with you, and you know what? I only felt safe flirting because I _knew_ you were a stodgy arse and weren’t about to take advantage. You know how rare an opportunity that is for me? Of course you don’t. I’m not sorry.” 

Zelda turned to leave. Link sighed loudly, picturing Aryll’s disapproving face. He had only made things worse. “Look, Zelda . . .” He reached for her arm to halt her departure. His aim was a bit off. Hot cider splashed across the front of her sweater. 

She did stop and turn to look at him, then. “Well, fuck you too,” she said, setting her now‐noticeably‐more‐empty mug on the counter behind her. 

“Shit, sorry!” Link began, wondering how he might possibly manage to mess things up even more. He didn’t get the chance to say much else, however. 

In that moment, Zelda leapt off her feet and tackled him. 

####  **VI** But even though I stumbled to relate, You met my efforts in a cognate fashion.

And so Link came to be engaged in a drunken fistfight with Her Divine Grace the Crown Princess Zelda Tetra, Heir Apparent to the Kingdom of Hyrule and All Her Territories, Child of Hylia Incarnate and Keeper of the Light: There was some part of his body which was cognizant of this fact. She punched him in the gut; he elbowed her face and split her lip. She attempted to trip him; he grabbed hold of the front of her sweater and brought her down alongside. They battled it out on the ground like a pair of angry cats for some time. —: Such were not typical modes of interaction with a member of the Royal Family; there could be consequences. Some part of Link knew this, and he was just drunk enough to tell that part of himself to fuck right off. 

In the end, however, Zelda lacked both the hand~eye coordination and the stamina to pose much of a threat. Link rolled over on top of her and pressed his forearms against her wrists; she was pinned. Together, they held this stalemate :— sweaty, dirty, breathing heavily, and with faces just inches from one another —: for a few moments while they waited for their lightheadedness to subside. Around them, the remaining partygoers gave them a wide berth. 

Zelda was the first to speak :— huffing; turning her face to the side. “Figures you would actually know how to fight,” she said. 

“You’re just drunk,” Link responded, and she huffed again, looking up into his eyes. 

“You have my blood on your cheek,” she declared. “Give it back. No—keep it.” She wrinkled her nose. “Your hair is a mess. I like it—not so pretty.” 

“You’re not making any sense.” Zelda’s lip was still bleeding, and she had blood smeared across her chin. Her cheek was already beginning to darken with a bruise. “You look hideous,” Link told her. She positively beamed. 

“This is how I’m _supposed_ to look,” she said. “Don’t you think?” 

He replied with a long sigh. “I am _not_ punching you in the face for the sake of _fashion_.” Zelda stuck out her tongue at him, and very nearly licked Link’s nose. 

“Oh my goddess,” Aryll shouted, from somewhere quite nearby. From the outside, their position doubtless looked quite compromising. “Get a room, you two!” Link’s face reddened, but he still preferred embarrassment to Zelda’s fists. He didn’t budge. 

For her part, though, Zelda seemed quite finished with fighting. “She’s right,” she said. “We should get cleaned up,” which was not what Aryll had said at all. 

“Speak for yourself.” 

“It’s cold. You’re all sweaty. You’ll become ill. Then you’ll die, and I’ll be trapped here under your skinny arse forever. Get _up_ ; you can use my shower.” 

At this, Link finally relented. Zelda rose, dusted herself off, and held out an arm for him, which he pointedly refused. She shrugged, curled her finger to tell him to follow, and led him inside. 

A few assistants waited indoors, but although Zelda accepted a cold rag to stop her bleeding, she waved off future help. “Is this a . . . regular occurrance for you?” Link asked, morbidly curious as she led him down the hall. “Nobody seems particularly alarmed.” 

Zelda snorted, pressing the damp cloth to her lip. “Hardly. The people here, they take all their cues from your mood. Like dogs. Because I’m not acting upset . . . nothing’s wrong.” The night was late enough that the Palace was actually mostly empty; once they had stepped away from the Gardens, there was not another soul to be seen. At a remove, Link remembered that he was in the Princess’s wing, not normally available to outsiders; having not seen the rest of the Palace, however, he couldn’t really say how it was any different. The two travelled in silence past several doorways before Zelda spoke again. “. . . I’m sorry for tackling you,” she said. 

“Didn’t you _just_ say—” 

“I know what I said!” she snapped. “And maybe I _was_ using you, alright? I’ll understand if you don’t want to accept it.” Then a heavy sigh. “(Left here.) I suppose . . . there’s something about you which makes me feel safe, and . . . it makes me want to press my luck. I’m not such a sweetheart as you.” 

This was definitely one of the stranger—and more bruising—compliments Link had ever received. “You punched me because I felt safe?” he asked. “So, what, you’re only kind to dangerous people, then?” 

“That’s politics.” Zelda shrugged. “. . . But, I also don’t escort them to my room afterwards to get cleaned up, so, it all depends on what you’re after, I suppose. Here we are.” 

Link figured that he probably would have rather not gotten socked in the gut, but considering that the Princess had _just_ apologized for that, refrained from voicing the thought. 

The room was neat, the bed made, and Link idly wondered if the Princess did that herself or if others managed it for her. There were two desks :— a small, minimal one with a laptop and a pair of speakers, and a larger one stocked with notebooks, pens, and journals. Prints by various contemporary artists hung on the walls in cheap, minimal frames, and the one massive bookshelf in the room was positively overflowing, and looked well‐read. Facing the bed was a flatscreen television, equipped with the obligatory videogame consoles and a few from previous generations besides. 

“Yep, this is my room,” Zelda said, clapping her arms to her sides like a penguin. “Is it to your expectations?” 

“Bit underwhelming, actually,” Link replied, and Zelda laughed. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment. The bath is adjoining; you can go get washed up—and I do mean _take a shower_ , not that your cologne isn’t nice—and I’ll scrounge you up a change of clothes, alright? We’ll launder your currents and get them back to you tomorrow.” 

“Do you . . . have my address?” Link asked. There was a lot to unpack in that order :— using the Princess’s shower; wearing Her clothes; Her assistants washing _his_ trousers —: but he was growing weary of struggling against the tides and decided, for once, to just go with the flow. 

“I arranged your transportation, boko,” Zelda reminded him. “Now go on: I don’t want to spend all night waiting for you.” 

Zelda’s lip had stopped bleeding, but her face was still a mess, and she looked stern. Link went. 

####  **VII** Their motivations, hearts reveal in time;

The bathroom was sizeable, modern, and clean, with one wall taken up with sink and mirrors, and the shower mounted on the opposite, facing. The door had no lock, which made Link feel a bit awkward as he stripped down bare, and the fan was quiet, its sound easily masked once the water flowed. The shower’s barrier was entierly glass, allowing him to observe the room in its entirety while he washed, although its centre third was frosted for privacy’s sake, a detail Link thought odd in a room which ordinarily only held one occupant. Then again, he certainly was _not_ mourning being confronted with a constant visage of his private parts in the mirror, and thought that perhaps the Princess felt similarly about her own. 

In any case, it turned out to be a good thing, because a moment later, a knock came on the door. Zelda’s voice could be heard through the panelling: “Is it safe for me to come in?” she asked. 

“If you are asking whether my sensitive bits are behind frosted glass, they are,” Link shouted back. It was awkward, but as predicted, the Princess came bearing his fresh change of clothes—evidently they were both of the same mind that having him emerge from the bathroom wrapped in only a towel would have been worse. She hung these on hooks which had been set into the wall. “That didn’t take you long,” Link observed. 

Zelda stuck her tongue out at him. She had already changed out of her party attire, Link noticed, and was wrapped in a very comfortable‐looking white robe and quite possibly nothing else. “You’re only fortunate that we’re about the same size,” she replied. Their slight height differential did not need to be stated. As someone bashless enough to walk in on her guest while they were in the shower, Zelda was at least respectful about it: Her eyes didn’t linger upon Link’s body; instead, they were drawn to her own reflection, in the mirror. “. . . You really did a number on me, huh?” she said, softly, drawing near to the sink and experimentally prodding her blackening eye. 

For his own part, Link was surprised at how little he minded the Princess’s company. It was as though an aire of domestic compatibility passed between them—an odd thing to think of one you had only recently been wrestling to the ground. “Don’t blame me for your sorry look,” Link protested to her. “You literally started it.” 

“I wasn’t complaining,” Zelda stated. She opened a drawer and selected a washrag from it. “Could you dampen this for me?” she asked. “I don’t want to freeze you out trying the sink.” 

“A bit impatient to clean up, after all, are you?” Link teased, accepting the assignment. It was a strange kind of adorable, the way she kept her eyes averted as they passed the cloth back and forth over the shower wall between them. It was nearing the point where Link almost found it offensive—surely his bare shoulders and blurred torso weren’t _that_ scandalous—but he could see the blush on her cheeks; the Princess evidently wasn’t as worldly as she liked to let on. 

“Hylia, I’m just wiping the blood off my face,” Zelda muttered, turning sharply back to the sink. “You needn’t make it sound like I’m looking to _join you_.” She pressed the rag to her face, wincing as it came into contact with her bruise. “You’ve made it quite clear already that you’re not interested in that.” 

Standing naked, as he was, in the shower, and seeing the Crown Princess bending over the sink wearing naught but a bathrobe, it was a stretch to claim that _no_ part of him was interested. But, well, they were pissed, and Link figured they both already had more‐than‐enough things to regret in the morning. So no, he did not want her standing naked in there beside him. “And here I could have sworn you were joking,” he said, nonchalantly attempting to wash his hair. 

“I was.” Zelda turned and hopped up on the countertop, her feet dangling towards him, still looking to the side. Link tried not to notice how exposed her legs had become. “Yet, in the stories they write of tonight,” she said softly, “you know this is the part where we’ll start fucking.” 

She almost looked sad, which wasn’t an expression Link was used to seeing on her face at all. “I thought the whole point of the nondisclosure agreements was to _prevent_ that sort of gossip?” he asked. 

A quick laugh, and the expression faded. “If you want to admit that that’s what actually happened, sure thing; go right ahead. NDAs are for those with proof. Everyone else, it’s easier to dismiss as fantasy.” She shrugged, then sighed. “The thing is, Link . . .” Zelda chose her next words carefully. “When you’ve already been living in a fantasy your whole life, it becomes so _difficult_ to know how you actually feel. About anything. Why do you think I’m here?” she asked quietly. “Why do you think any of this night happened?” She tugged gently at the neckline of her robe. “The truth is, if you asked, I probably _would_ join you.” 

“You’re pissed,” Link reminded her, and she looked at him then, a small smile on her face, soft and genuine. 

“Like I said,” she repeated, “too much of a stodgy arse to take advantage. That’s why I feel safe around you.” With that, she rose, and headed for the door. “Thanks for putting up with my anxieties this night. I’ll leave you in peace, now.” She did pause in the entryway, though, a statue in a snowwhite robe. “Have you heard what they say . . . about the four seasons?” she asked. 

> “Limbs leave leaves, red and black. A soft white blanket covers earth. Springtime rain wets new growth. Time alone brings summer’s mirth.”

Zelda glanced back at him over her shoulder with a smile. “. . . Take your time, Link; Hylia knows you’ve earned it. I’ll only be writing in my diary when you’re done.” 

The door closed before Link could ask her what she’d meant. 

####  **VIII** I stand content with knowledge they align.

It happened as Zelda had foretold: Link emerged to find her sitting at her desk, writing. She looked up at him and smiled. “I was just describing your previous outfit in my diary,” she said, “and here you present me with a new one.” 

“Of your own choosing,” Link reminded her, but she waved this comment off. 

> “Timeless stitch? Timeless frame: On some do clothes and body feud; Yet on you, I proclaim, Are even hand·me·downs renewed.

“They look far better on you than they ever did on me,” Zelda told him. “You’re not to give them back.” 

Link found it difficult to believe that there was _any_ look which the Princess couldn’t pull off, but he couldn’t entirely disagree with her sentiment. Her clothes fit him astonishingly well, and they were at once stylish, warm, and comfortable. Link wasn’t one for fashion, he reminded himself, but then again, nothing in the men’s department had ever hugged his body quite so nicely as _this_. 

He tried not to think about quite how many rupees worth of garment he had just been gifted. 

Meanwhile, Zelda closed her book and rose from her chair. “Do you think you can make it back to the party on your own?” she asked. “It ought to be winding down; I’ve already texted Aryll regarding your transportation home.” Link nodded, and Zelda stepped into the bathroom. “No need to wait up for me,” she said. “I’m sure I’ve caused the both of you trouble enough already.” 

She closed the door. 

The warmth of the shower was greatly restoring to Zelda, after a night of dancing and being on her feet. She turned her face to the water and closed her eyes. In late moments such as these, there was naught left to be done—certainly, nothing which could not wait for sobriety—so her remaining options were either to forget about all wot had just happened or to let it haunt her all night, and she greatly preferred the former. Better just to focus on the water running through her hair—or stinging against her cheek. 

He _had_ smarted her properly, that was for sure. 

If Zelda was being entirely honest, she was sad to see him go. She would invite them both back; of course she would, but her next monthly Palace Garden Tea Party wouldn’t be until, well, a month thence. And—drunk and in the middle of the night was some way to make friends. She hadn’t done her best, tonight, she knew. 

For a brief moment, she considered making next month’s party sober. Perhaps she could serve some actual tea. 

Again, though, such plans could wait until morning. As it was, naked and in a box was hardly a position of strength or preparedness, and Zelda tried to minimize her time as such, so it was only a few minutes before the water shut off again. She towelled off with practiced efficiency, straightened a Mumbo Jumbo tee—from their first tour—over her torso, and dried her hair. She never had gotten rid of the old bandshirts, even if she never wore them out in public anymore; they now made the top half of her sleepwear, instead. Then she brushed her chompers, following with mouthwash and leaving her tongue with a clean, fresh sense. Someday, she thought, she would kiss somebody with these teeth. For now, they seemed to get her in trouble, instead. 

So, it was perhaps a quarterhour before Zelda returned to her bedroom, and—it might have been the heat of the shower. It might have been consequence for a night of drinking. It might have been another reason entirely. But whatever the cause, when Zelda emerged from her bathroom that night, ready for bed, she found Link already in it, sprawled atop the covers, passed out and snoring soundly. The boots at his feet suggested he had sat there to put them on—a rookie mistake, really—and after Zelda retrieved her phone she moved them more properly to the foot of the bed. Then she herself knelt at the head. 

“Hey, beautiful,” she said, ruffling his hair—still damp, and smelling like her shampoo. For a moment, it was he who seemed the princess, frozen in time, and she placed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth to rouse him. “I’m going to text Aryll and let her know you’re spending the night, okay? You look like you could use the rest.” 

Link stirred and looked at her, having a blank expression that made Zelda wonder if he’d understood a word she’d said. Then he mumbled something incomprehensible and rolled over, burying his face in her pillow. 

Zelda giggled: a brief, unexpected sort of laugh. She gently tapped his rear. “C’mon, you don’t want to sleep in those,” she told him. And perhaps she was taking advantage of him again—but all Zelda could think about was how she didn’t want to be left alone on this night. Link, obviously not entirely conscious, attempted to kick off his jeans (her jeans), to no great success. “You have to remove the belt first, boko,” she chided, softly, rising from the mattress. “. . . I’ll go find you some pyjamas.” 

As she fell asleep next to a snoring pair of puppy‐print joggers, Zelda knew that she would never be able to ask for those back from him, either. 

**Author's Note:**

> i finally did it y’all
> 
> . . . i _wrote a straightfic_


End file.
